


I Bet on Losing Dogs

by Pres310



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Cryptids, Hurt No Comfort, Implied Relationships, Indrid being centuries old in most fics implies that, Its very vague but, M/M, Short, Song: I Bet on Losing Dogs (Mitski), This is once again, extremely vague, he once cared about, he's had to have outlived a few humans, just wanted to explore that, short & sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-15 17:42:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29687595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pres310/pseuds/Pres310
Relationships: Indrid Cold/Duck Newton
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	I Bet on Losing Dogs

There are times when centuries of life pass by in seconds, or when rose colored glasses pitch to red flags, or when the glasses come off and you are left with the aftermath of what that means. When your lifespan is measured in centuries, there are times when human clocks seem to miniscule of a measurement. There are times when they feel too large of a measurement, not descriptive enough for all that can happen in a second. There are no words in any language, human or sylvan, to describe all that can happen in a second.

  
In a second, silver hair can rest against a still and welcoming chest. The night is unwatching and the cologne of green carnations lingers on necks and skin, lingers on fingertips, lingers on touches, lingers on breaths like the first morning drops of dew. 

  
In a second, a door can open. 

  
In a second, one can bet on a losing dog. 

  
In a second, one can pay for their place by the ring. One can regret even trying.

  
Minutes are no better- it is, quite literally, too minute to encompass all that can happen in sixty seconds. A person, a moth, could see a minute into the future and still never have the words to describe it in the time that minute takes to pass. One can gamble away their life in a minute, can watch lives be tossed away like dice. In a minute, a bridge can collapse and somebody loses a friend, a father, a sister, somebody. A high school teacher. A fellow employee. A bitter enemy you didn't expect to lose so soon. That person you almost asked to coffee.

  
Hours take a special, bitter place in Indrid’s heart. Hours give him time to warn, time to summon the words- but can the future be changed in only an hour? And why couldn't the future be clearer sooner? 

  
Days are a construct unbeknownst to the Mothman, where Nights take their welcome place. Nights give him time, and space, and a sort-of home where he usually has none. Nights give him bear hugs and warm hands, revealed moth tattoos on hips and quiet questions, whispered promises. Confusion and kisses traded for greedy glimpses of the future.

  
“Will you let me-”

  
There are better ways to bet on losing dogs. To lose your money and pay for your place by the ring- go to vegas, bet on a ring of horses. There are easier ways of betting on losing dogs than saying the words “I always want you.” 

  
Than letting crescendos rise and decrescendos fall, than letting the electric guitar strumming of your heart beat so loud and fast that it can't be ignored. Than noticing. Than wanting.

  
Indrid Cold has always bet on losing dogs.


End file.
